


In Search of a Nuclear Winter

by Write_By_Nite



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canada (Fallout), Expanded Universe, Explicit Language, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_By_Nite/pseuds/Write_By_Nite
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Bitter Springs, NCR Territory

A checkered jacket flashes in the crowd. For a split second, the Courier thinks it's him. The scrub-brush lowlife that tore out the memory from his brain with a nine millimetre bullet. But no. Benny lies under four feet of hot Mojave clay, facedown and fucked up beyond all recognition. The Courier's vision sharpens; it's only a raggedy flannel shirt, the dirty black-and-white pattern fading into the crowd as his attention to it wanes. 

He needed a nap, that much was evident. No time for that, though; Bitter Springs had little to offer for non-NCR, and a courier's hustle never faded. However, a drink could be in order.

The place had changed, the Courier assumed, since he'd last tumbled through. Permanent shacks were scattered along the camp's outskirts, and fresh-looking wells were surrounded by throngs of people. Small shops had sprung up as well, but the Courier had his eye on one massive patchwork tent, with a half-assed wooden sign perched beside its flaps reading 'Barrel Cactus Taphouse'.

"I should get a Nuka-Cola. Or a whisky. Shit, or just plain water," he muttered. The Courier kept his voice low for good reason: the desert fatigues he wore had already attracted attention from the camp's occupants, and he was thankful for the lack of bravery required to voice them. At least he had scrubbed off the ink soaked into his helmet - although, the words 'Forgive Me' were still faintly visible. He supposed, though, they fit.

A fair amount of hustle and noise was coming from the tent - a pair of spoons clacked, and bubbles of laughter rose and fell in volume. When he pushed open the flaps, however, and stood up straight, the hubbub stopped dead. A decrepit ceiling fan creaked. Each soft-toed footstep and swish of his duster practically rang throughout the bar, and untrusting eyes settled heavily on his back. As he sat down at a long stretch of stained counter, the barkeep set down a freshly rinsed mug in front of him.

"I ain't never seen green eyes on a ranger's bucket before," she said with a slightly wary tone. "But then, you ain't no ranger, are you?"

"I'm not." He kept his tone crisp, but polite. 

"Naw, he's House's gun boy... Ain't ya? You killed that Lanius guy, threw him off the Dam." The newcomer to the conversation was a scruffy wanderer type, with a warm bottle of sarsparilla in one hand. It was his other hand, however, that worried the Courier. It rested on a worn-out gecko holster, the thumbsnap undone and exposing the grip of the wanderer's .45 revolver. It was one hell of a gun, and the sight of it raised the Courier's hackles instantly. 

"I did."

"Well, lemme buy a drink for ya, then. No sense in a war hero not being recognized." The wanderer snapped his fingers with a whistle, and waved the barkeep over with an impatient hand. "Two shots of bourbon, and make it snappy-like." Nevermind the gun, even the wanderer's tone of voice rubbed the Courier the wrong way. 

"I don't drink." This, of course, was a heinous lie, and it hurt - just a little - to forgo that shiny bottle of liquid joy on the shelf. However, there was a point to be made, and those always came before booze. 

"Bullshit. Any man who's worth his caps drinks."

"That's what this is about, then? Caps?" The Courier paused, running the conversation's possibilities through his head. He wasn't in any position to take on a new job, not the way he was travelling. Anything south of Bitter Springs wasn't going to happen. Anything terribly eastern was a no-go, as well. "You wanna hire me, is that it?"

As the barkeep set down the two shots in front of him, the wanderer smiled unpleasantly. "Now, what gave you that impression, pardner?" 

"That's quite the gun you've got there, _partner_. And I'm not sure if I like where it's being pointed." The .45 was out of its holster by now, the barrel aimed towards the Courier.

"Well, y'see, I'm fixin' to take somebody out. Now, before you get your trenchcoat in a twist, I ain't fixin' to shoot ya. But considerin' that this here firearm is primed and ready to blast out your balls at the drop of a hat, I'd be recommendin' you listen."

So, that's what it was going to be. 

A silence followed the wanderer's speech, then the Courier sighed. "Let me take my helmet off, then..." 

"Yeah, you take a minute, you better hear me right-" His sentence was cut short, unfortunately, by the Courier's helmet whipping up and under his chin, sending an oozing chunk of bitten-off tongue flipping through the air. Dazed and disoriented, the wanderer scrambled for his gun, but the Courier had already snatched it from his slackened grip. Now, the .45 held the wobbling jowls of the wanderer's chin tight, as a disgusting slime of saliva and blood dripped from the corner of his swiftly swelling mouth. 

"'I better hear you right'? Is that what I heard?" The wanderer's mouth twisted, and he attempted to spit, but failed as the Courier's open palm crashed against his face. "I _will_ shoot you. And I will drag your stinking corpse out of this town, and dump it down a fire ant pit, am I clear? I will personally make sure that neither God nor the Devil himself will come for your shit-stain of a soul." The Courier pushed the barrel of the .45 inwards, eliciting a pitiful whine from the wanderer. "You got anything else on you, you piss-poor excuse of a greasy sumbitch?" The poor sap shook his head with a fervour, his hands flipping out pockets and coat folds with a panic. "That satchel, drop it. And the holster. You're gonna leave here with nothing but the cloth on your sorry ass, you understand?"

"Ye-yessir, of course, yeah." The leather goods fell to the ground with a dry thump, and the .45's grip was finally loosened. With a shove and a kick and a cry of 'Git!', the wanderer bolted through the tent flaps,

The barkeep stared after him for a moment, arms slack at her sides. "...Thanks, man. That was a pretty good display you put on back there."

The Courier nodded, and knocked back both of the untouched bourbons before scooping up the wanderer's satchel. Opening the clasps, he rifled through the bag until he produced a small leather sack, full to the brim with caps. "Here."

The barkeep blinked, wide-eyed and contemplating the morality of this sudden windfall. "I- Sir, you don't have to..." She paused. "Thank you. Really, thanks." Anxious to continue past this turn of events, she swept the sack off the counter and tucked it into a small metal crate behind her. "You, uh, you got a name? Destination?"

The Courier stooped to pick up his helmet, then slung it back over his head. As the green lenses flashed to life, the internal speaker crackled and spit as his voice came through the modulator. "Name's Maddox. 

And I'm going North."


	2. North of the Mojave, No-Man's Land

The wind howled, and the Courier shivered despite himself. The night was dark, and the glow of his Pip-Boy shone dim against the billboard he braced himself against. According to the screen, he was five miles away from Zion; he had been walking for seven days straight, keeping steady pace since he left the Boomer camp at Nellis. He chuckled, remembering the agonizingly slow pace the Happy Trails caravan had plodded along at; two weeks to travel the Northern Passage was ridiculous, even with a loaded brahmin cart. 

A hot wind snapped the bottom of his trench coat against his legs; a storm was brewing to the East. With a sigh, he cracked open the lid of his canteen, took a swig of the lukewarm water, then sealed it up and slung his helmet back over his head.

Marty Robbins’ tinny voice sang softly from the Courier’s Pip-Boy, and the Courier’s footsteps began to match the beat of the song as his voice scratched out the lyrics. “He’s an outlaw loose and running, came a whisper from each lip… And he was there to do some business with the big iron on his hip.” 

His gloved hand tapped the holster strapped to his right thigh - the gun at his hip was a glossy .45 pistol, with a beautiful snakeskin grip. It had been a gift, from no less than the Burned Man himself, though the Courier knew him as simply Graham; Joshua Graham. The pistol was finely tuned and modded with great care, and had two lines of… The Courier struggled to remember what Joshua had said. Two lines of… Of...

Dammit, come on...

Greek. Two lines of Greek, one per side, inscribed upon the metal. He couldn’t remember the translation, and a headache was beginning to bloom across his forehead. His brain pushed aside the thoughts of the pistol, and instead he thought of his destination.

* * *

“Ah, Courier, welcome back.” House’s voice echoed through the Lucky 38’s penthouse suite, his face superimposed upon the usual screen.

The Courier nodded, his expression polite as he smoothed back his still-damp hair - the soap in the Presidential Suite’s shower felt amazing, and he couldn’t resist holding a hand in his hair for a few moments longer. “Glad to be here. What did you need?” 

“As you know, RobCo Industries touched every aspect of American life, including that of the military.”

The Courier cleared his throat, hiding the chuckle that rose. “ _Especially_ that of the military.”

House made a noise of disapproval, but continued, otherwise unfazed. “Yes, there was certainly a large market for armaments, both nuclear and otherwise. In any case, during America’s expansion into Canada, RobCo took up offices within the Rocky Mountains, and there was a very large amount of resources invested into… Developmental programs, in various facilities. Unfortunately, due to the short-term use of Annexed Canada by my company, I was unable to put in place the nuclear failsafes and defenses that I did in America. 

Now, with New Vegas under control, thanks to your efforts on my behalf,” House almost had a touch of pride in his voice as he spoke, “I wish to know precisely the state of my Canadian assets.”

“You’re sending me to Canada?”

“What’s left of it, yes. You will be outfitted with a long-range transmitter, for giving and receiving radio messages. It is, however, satellite-focused, so it will not function under unfavourable weather conditions or underground.”

“So… Wait a minute. You’re sending me to an inhospitable frozen hellscape, alone, to dig up your old robots?” The Courier was impressed with himself for a moment. Arcade’s reading lessons and dictionary had paid off.

“Yes. And you will leave tomorrow. I’ve given Victor the transmitter - he will attach it to your Pip-Boy once this conversation has concluded. Plus, your usual profit of caps will be substantially increased upon your return, in addition to a materials payment.Any further questions?”

The Courier sighed, and ran his hand through his hair -- still wet -- and considered voicing what would be an inevitably fruitless complaint. Ultimately, he decided against sparking the ire of his primary employer. “No sir.”

“Very good. You may go.” As the Courier turned to leave, House continued, in a somewhat softer tone. “And, Maddox?”

Shoulders stiffened, the Courier turned. “Yeah?”

“I anticipate great things from you. That is all.”

* * *

The Angel Cave’s ceiling glimmered in the light of a pre-War lantern, and the Courier shifted on his bedroll. He had begun to theorize that House valued him more than he let on, even to the extent of an emotional attachment. Or, as much of an emotional attachment as the old raisin could muster. 

The sound of a twig, snapping at the cave’s entrance, opened his eyes with lightning speed. His hand flew for the pistol tucked under his bedroll, and he held it steady as he aimed for the would-be intruder. Surprisingly, it was only a dog; a White Legs mongrel, by the looks of it. Or… Had the Sorrows taken in dogs? “C’mere, boy.” The Courier whistled, and snapped his fingers with an outstretched hand. 

As the dog stepped into the lamplight, the Courier realized that, indeed, it was a White Legs animal, albeit far larger and more muscled than any of the tribe’s mongrels he had previously seen. The dog sniffed the Courier’s open palm, and gave it a tentative lick, but shied away as the hand reached out to pet it.

“Hey now, calm down, buddy.” His eyes never leaving the dog, the Courier reached into his pack for a small pouch of iguana bits. It was valuable food, sure, but solo travel was inherently lonely, and any companionship at all was welcome in his eyes.

The dog’s nose twitched as the Courier withdrew a small chunk of meat, then tossed it onto the cave floor. “It’s not poison, trust me.”

With a cautious eye, and slightly lowered ears, the dog took a few more steps, snapped up the treat, and promptly laid down beside the Courier’s lamp.

“Huh. Would you look at that.” The Courier watched the dog for a few moments longer, then laid back down with a sigh. He listened to the plip-plip of the rain water trickling along the Angel Cave’s ceiling, and, after the usual long wait, the Courier fell into a trademark fitful sleep.

The Courier spent little time in the Sorrows’ land; he was anxious to move quickly, and the canyons of Zion had a habit of sending claustrophobic chills rippling up and down his spine. His path was a simple one, winding through the wide-open plateau of what was once Utah, and up through Idaho and Montana’s forests and plains into a province called ‘British Columbia’. House had provided him with a physical map, as well as the one in his Pip-Boy, and the Courier took time each night to study its plasticky surface and mark out each leg of his journey.

The dog he had met in Angel Cave had become a faithful travel companion, albeit an occasionally truant one; the dog would disappear for hours at a time, but would always return, usually with something dead between its teeth. It was a welcome companion, although the Courier’s heart ached slightly when he thought of the dog he had left at home. Rex was in the care of Raul; the mechanic seemed like the safest option for Rex, given that he could most likely disassemble and reassemble the dog in fifty minutes flat.

The Courier was so wrapped up in his thoughts, on that hot evening just south of the Montana border, that his instincts failed to register the red dot racing across the prairie scrub. They failed to notice the glint of a half-dozen scopes crammed into a patch of trees. And, they failed to notice the burnt-out hull of a Vertibird, about a mile and a half dead ahead. 

“Stop, wastelander!” An amplified voice rang out from the brush. The Courier stopped dead, hand resting on the dog’s scruff to steady it. 

“Drop your weapons! You have entered the territory of the Brotherhood of Steel!”

The Courier paused, and drew in a breath.

“Well, fuck.”


	3. BoS Bunker 'Montana', Brotherhood of Steel Territory

‘Sweetgrass Police Department’. The hand-lettered logo was still visible in the bottom corner of the mirror. The Pre-War glass was smoky, dirtied with age and spattered with an undefined liquid at its base. Maddox had woken up about fifteen minutes before, bound with a double set of rusty cuffs that held his arms behind his back, and his ankles to the legs of a chair.

He stared at the gaunt, scraggly wastelander in his reflection. A thick, unkempt beard hung over the bottom half of his face, the hairless scar tissue on his jaw resulting in an overall patchy look complemented by the greasy mess of curls that was once an acceptable hairstyle. His eyes, however, were bright and clear, and he was relieved to see no signs of the telltale bloodshot appearance that radiation exposure brought. He did note, however, the deep greenish-blue bruise that had begun to bloom across his chin - a parting gift from the Brotherhood knight that had ‘disarmed’ him out in the scrub.  
  
Maddox had complied, performed exactly as directed - threw down his guns, put his hands up, told the dog to sit, but no dice. He was still a threat. Evidently, the Montana Chapter thought so highly of his capacity for violence that they had deemed it necessary to remove his Pip-Boy from his arm; the pale, pasty skin that had languished underneath it shone brightly under the interrogation room’s fluorescent lights, sitting in stark contrast to the leathery tan on the rest of his body.   
  
A door opened and shut behind him; Maddox’s ears perked up. He heard footsteps; a woman’s, or very thin man’s, shuffling slightly as they made their way to something out of his view. A clunk sounded - something had been set down on a table. A click, shortly after, then a whirring sound as machinery came to life: was it torture? Probably not. Was the Courier in cuffs preparing for it anyways? Most definitely.

The footsteps, he found, belonged to a scribe, who entered his field of view, knocked twice on the mirror, then turned to face him. “You will be interrogated shortly, wastelander.” Her tone was clipped, but somehow hollow, as if she wasn’t entirely confident in the words that came from her mouth. “You will answer truthfully, or face the resulting penalties. Am I clear?” At his silence, she left his field of view once more, and called to someone outside of the room. “Cairns! C’mere for a moment.” 

A new set of footsteps sounded against the concrete floor as the door swung on its hinges once again. These new ones were heavy, and each footfall clanked and hissed like a Securitron’s. A heavy metal hand gripped the back of Maddox’s chair, and picked him up with ease, spinning him around to face a Brotherhood soldier in full power armour, save for the helmet. The man inside the metal suit was blond-haired, with watery blue eyes that shone coldly in the light. A poorly-healed scar marred the apple of his right cheek, the warped skin a pale, silvery-pink tone that stuck out brightly against the tan surface of his pockmarked face.

Looking down, Maddox noticed an orange band painted onto the arm of the blond’s armour; if he remembered Veronica’s words correctly, that meant he was no more than a knight, and most definitely not in charge. “So uh, who’s doing the grilling?”

The knight let go of the chair, dropping Maddox - rather unceremoniously - about a foot and a half onto the floor. The cuffs on his wrists bit in with the impact, and he felt the rusty burrs of the metal break skin as he adjusted his seat in the chair. “Scribe Halden’s doing it. You’re awfully lucky, wastelander. I’m not so forgiving.” With a final, fairly pompous sneer, the knight turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Now…” The scribe leaned in close, so close that Maddox could smell the cram on her breath. “I’d really like to keep Cairns out of here,” she said, in a much lowered tone, “and have you on your way as soon as possible. But, there are multiple people that would like nothing more than to kill you and keep your kind out of Montana and away from New Canada. So… Just, cooperate, please?” She pulled away, and Maddox stealthily exhaled his held breath and sucked in a lungful of the newly untainted air.

“Prisoner interview…” The scribe sighed as she sat down, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she checked a sheet of paper on the table. “Twenty-two, interview twenty-two, Scribe Halden presiding. Date is July 17th, 2287. Location, Brotherhood of Steel Montana Chapter, Prison Block.” Scribe Halden turned her attention away from the recorder, and instead looked at the Courier. “We’ll begin with a quick questionnaire; you will answer honestly, and without attitude or venom. 

First question: name?”

Nothing Maddox hadn’t been through before. “Six.”

Halden shot him a dirty look, and tilted her head pointedly towards the door, through which Maddox could see the knight, standing guard with a police baton in hand.

With a sigh, he answered once more. “Maddox.”

“Surname?”

“Don’t got one.”

“Very well. Date and place of birth?”

“Date, January 3rd, 2260. Place, I dunno.” Halden frowned again - she reminded Maddox of House, in a way, with that permanently soured face. 

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah, got shot in the head awhile back by a jackass who wanted me dead. Didn’t kill me, just got a solid case of amnesia.”

“...I see. Settlement of origin, then?”

“What?”

“Your home.”

“Oh. Uh… New Vegas, I guess. Mojave Wasteland.”

The scribe gave Maddox a disbelieving look. “You came from Las Vegas?”

He cleared his throat. “New Vegas. But, yes.”

“Reason for travel?”

With a chuckle, he answered, “Recreation.”

Scribe Halden set her jaw. She glared at him, then sighed as she paused the recorder, stood up, and walked to the door. Maddox, on the other hand, immediately regretted his decision as the knight with the baton entered the room.

“Knight Cairns will be replacing me in the interrogation. Enjoy.” With that, the scribe exited the room, leaving Maddox and the knight alone.

The knight stood behind Maddox, leaning forwards to push ‘play’ on the recorder. “Knight Cairns, replacing Scribe Halden as interrogator. Interview continues.

Reason for travel, wastelander?”

Maddox held his facial expression tight, and pinned down the sneer that threatened to rise with the knight’s words. “Business.”

“Employer?”

“Robert House.”

“House?”

“Ye-” 

Crack, went the knight’s gauntlet across the back of Maddox’s head. He saw stars, and the whine of a possible concussion rang in his ears. The feeling of the impact twisted a cold knife in his gut, and a sweat broke out across his brow and upper lip as the memory of a previous strike swirled past his subconscious. 

“You wanna be funny with me, eh? You wanna take a jab at being a clown, yeah?” 

“It’s not a joke-”   
  
Another strike, this time to the mouth; a lifted corner of metal cut a line of skin from Maddox’s lip to his cheek, a burning stripe of pain that made his eyes water. 

He gasped, a glob of blood sticking to his lip as he pleaded, “Stop, it wasn’t a joke, that’s his-” A fist grabbed his matted hair, and yanked his head back with a crackle as the bones jostled in his neck. The knight twisted his hand, and Maddox could only groan as the cut on his cheek stretched with his skin. “Stop…”

“Oh, you want me to stop?” The knight leered closer, his scarred cheek almost pressing against Maddox’s. “Huh? Had enough?” Only a hoarse whimper came as a reply. “Fine. Interview over.” 

The grip on Maddox's hair released, and a metal finger struck the ‘stop’ button on the recorder as he was hauled to his feet. The sudden change in elevation sent spikes of pain stabbing through his temples, and the dark, blotchy spots in the Courier's vision increased tenfold. He fought briefly to maintain consciousness, or at least some semblance of lucidity, but as the knight dragged him across the concrete, he slipped into the soothing embrace of a knockout.

* * *

“Psst. Ey, amie.”

Maddox's eyelids crackled, the crust of blood and sweat sloughing off in flakes as he struggled to open his eyes. The bare fluorescent bulb that lit the hallway outside of his cell blinded him for a moment, and his instincts curled him back up into the fetal position.

"Ey, amie! Tsu-tè Français?" The call came again, from one, maybe two cells over? The accent was interesting; it sounded similar to Raul's, almost, but softer. As Maddox stretched his head up to identify the source of the voice, he realized it had come from a wiry young man, slouched over lazily in the cell to his right. The cells themselves were only metal cages, similar to the ones he had seen at Raider encampments, spaced out about three feet apart. Unfortunately, the harsh lighting of the prison block shadowed the stranger's face - not that Maddox could see clearly anyways. 

"Sorry, I don't speak Spanish..." Maddox's reply was almost a groan, but he hoped it was enough. 

The man pauses, with a chuckle, but continues, in the same strong accent. "Ah, my apologies, man, English then, eh?"

Another groan came from Maddox, this time one of agreement. 

"Awesome, awesome... You uh, have a plan for getting out of here?" The thin figure shifted over into the light, and Maddox squinted in the gloom to make out a striking face - the kid was tan, almost as dark as some of the Zion tribals; for a moment Maddox almost wondered if he was a White Legs that had somehow escaped the massacre, or even a slave that had escaped Caesar's grip. His hair was long, worn in a raggedy ponytail the colour of asphalt. It was clearly well-maintained, however, and he saw none of the usual frizz or tangles that most wastelanders displayed. 

"Mm, nope." Maddox paused to inhale deeply, and winced at the inflammation around his ribs. "Any ideas?" 

"Well, one moment..." A clink and rattle came from the cell, and the door swung open with a rusty screech. A heartbeat later, and the man was at the door of Maddox's cell. "So, whaddya - oh, wow. They really did a number on you."

Struggling to his feet, Maddox coughs once, then straightens to the best of his ability. "I'm fine. But I need my things."

"They're uh, just down the hall. In a big trunk. Here, take these..." Maddox's new companion touched his hair for a moment, retrieving a fistful of bobby pins and dumping them in Maddox's stiff palm. "You can, uh... Unlock locks, yes?" 

"Course I can, what do you-" Maddox was cut off by the man's call from down the hallway.

Jogging backwards, he called to Maddox, "good, then go!" After a thought, he added, "I'll meet you outside the Bunker!" and promptly disappeared round the corner.

_Well, perfect. Alone again._


End file.
